Police cars block rue Sainte-Catherine. I cut through. I stand on the corner to watch the commotion. Chubby people frantically run about in buckled shoes. A terrifying statue of a saint stares down on us. An old man adjusts the tassel on his fez. I detest parades.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
Comments
Post a Comment